


Up Against The Wall

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Pre-Series, Redemption, Rehab, The Beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loves to push him, from the very moment they meet.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Lestrade keeps an eye out for the kid for the better part of six months, but time erases him from active memory, leaves him a shade of Lestrade’s early days; the story a self-deprecating laugh among new mates, a comfort to every new DI that’s been taken in by a slick and pretty liar. Which is why he’s dumfounded beyond reason that six years later his 10:30 appointment with someone named, ridiculously, Sherlock Holmes finds him staring into those eyes from across his desk. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Against The Wall

The crowd has already grown thick by the time Greg Lestrade gets out of the car.

Not that he blames them. Not every day a murder is committed in broad daylight, on a busy street, in full view of well over two dozen people. He just wishes at least one of them would have stuck around.

He sighs as he pushes his way through the press of people, all craning their necks to get a better view. He’s near the front when he feels someone lurch into him from the side. He turns and meets the most startling, bright green-grey eyes he’s ever seen, framed by dark lashes and a fringe of wild black curls. They stare for a moment before Lestrade remembers his manners. “Pardon,” he says.

“Not a problem, Detective Inspector,” the boy drawls. “And you’ll find quitting smoking is much easier if you try a patch.” Lestrade’s as surprised by the posh accent as he is the kid knowing about the smoking. University age most likely, maybe a bit older, but not much. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a gawker, but then again, it takes all kinds.

It’s only later, patting about his pockets for his warrant card, that he remembers the boy with the eyes, and swears.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Lestrade keeps an eye out for the kid for the better part of six months, but time erases him from active memory, leaves him a shade of Lestrade’s early days; the story a self-deprecating laugh among new mates, a comfort to every new DI that’s been taken in by a slick and pretty liar.

Which is why he’s dumfounded beyond reason that six years later his 10:30 appointment with someone named, ridiculously, Sherlock Holmes finds him staring into those eyes from across his desk.  

“You!” Lestrade says, and is half-way out of his chair before he remembers himself. “The statute of limitations has run on theft, so you better make it good before I figure out what else to haul you in for.”

Sherlock Holmes watches him with amused eyes, leaning back in Lestrade’s visitors chair in his perfectly tailored suit with a nonchalance that borders on insolence. Six years has done well for him. He’s grown into his face and ridiculous hair, and the effect of maturity is striking.

“Calm yourself, Inspector. I can see you’ve been here for at least 36 hours so I’ll excuse your agitation. I’m here to give you a little advice.”

“A little-“

“On the Cushing case. It wasn’t the wife.”

Lestrade stares. He’d had his own suspicions that it wasn’t, but how does this – this man, even know about the case to start with, much less know the identity of the prime suspect being bandied about at the case meeting that morning?  “I think you had better tell me everything you think you know about the Cushing case, from the very beginning,” Lestrade says, leaning his elbows on his desk.

Sherlock Holmes smiles, a sliver of a self-satisfied grin, and an hour later Lestrade is surrounded with the case notes and evidence boxes, and Sherlock pontificating to an audience of interested sergeants, officers, and his boss. He’s explaining carefully why the wife couldn’t have killed her husband, and diagramming a sequence of events, proven by evidence, that implicates the wife’s sister instead.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Sally mutters from his side, where she’d perched on his desk. “Seems a bit of a nutter. And he’s a junkie.”

Lestrade tips his head back to look at her. “How d’you figure?”

“Looked him up. Arrested two years ago for possession. Charges dropped, though, with no explanation.”

Lestrade frowns, looks at the lithe young man pointing out tiny details on an evidence photograph, and wonders what he’s about. Is he a genius, a lunatic, or a dreamer? He doesn’t know, but he’s honed a talent for detecting Truth, and he’s hearing it now from a skinny, lanky potential addict with a voice poets dream of and eyes that seem to see the deepest secrets of men’s hearts.

Sherlock turns from the group, catches Lestrade staring. He lifts the corner of his mouth in a knowing little half-smile, and the jolt that goes through Lestrade’s stomach doesn’t bode well for his future.

When the victim’s sister in law sings like a bird after being arrested the next day, he’s sure he’s doomed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

After the Cushing case, Sherlock drops in much more regularly, usually to give them a little tidbit he’s worked out on their current mystery, or, more often, harangue Sally or bend Lestrade’s ear about cold cases. Lestrade finds over the course of a few months comes to relish the visits, the friendly bickering, the brilliant flash of Sherlock’s quicksilver mind, the occasional sidelong glance in the late night.

It doesn’t embarrass him when he’s caught, as he sometimes is. Sherlock is, by most standards, a beautiful man, and if Lestrade spends a bit more time staring at the curve of his neck than he should, that’s not a terrible thing. There isn’t much he can imagine there, anyway. Sherlock’s still a bit otherworldly in many ways, giving off the impression he’s never been tied down to anything corporeal.  His visits are confined to the night, the witching hour, and Lestrade’s content to leave it like that until Sherlock shows up at a crime scene in the middle of the morning.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he says, astonished.

“Didn’t think you would mind. I mean, completely drained of blood? Come on, Lestrade, I had to see this one for myself.” Sherlock lifts the tape and walks under and Lestrade steps immediately in front of him.

“A bit early in the day for your first attempt at a crime scene, isn’t it?”

“Because I keep late hours? As if you don’t, or is that someone else at the Met I’ve been talking to?” Sherlock tries to step around, but Lestrade blocks him. He seems off, his eyes glassy, and Lestrade looks at him more closely.

It’s the crisp, snowy perfection of Sherlock’s shirt that makes the small spot of blood in the crook of his elbow stand out so clearly.

He’s not seen any evidence that Sherlock’s on anything harder than a pack a day until now, so he hooks a hand under Sherlock’s arm, compels him around the corner and shoves him up against the brick a little more roughly than he intended. But damn it, of all the stupid, stupid things to do.

“Tell me you aren’t high,” he growls, and Sherlock lifts his chin defiantly.

“I could, but you wouldn’t believe it. Besides, it wouldn’t be true.”

“Wouldn’t be true,” Lestrade mutters.  “Of course it wouldn’t! Damn it, Sherlock, what possessed you to show up to a crime scene like this? How could you be so incredibly reckless?” Lestrade wants to shake him, knock some sense into that brilliant head. Instead he clutches the lapels of Sherlock’s swank black coat, presses him back harder. “Tell me you won’t do this again.”

“Why Inspector, it almost sounds like you care,” Sherlock says, and there’s that infuriating smirk, a little twist to his lips that makes Lestrade’s blood boil. “Believe me, I’m well within my limits. But are you?”

“What?” is all Lestrade gets out before Sherlock surges forward, kisses him hard, their noses bumping at the terrible angle and Sherlock groaning into his mouth and trying his damnedest to get his hands on Lestrade’s belt. He’s shocked – everything he’d learned about Sherlock to this point made him seem so singular, almost ethereally separate from mortal men. But this is undeniably real, tendrils of sweet heat pooling in his groin and diffusing through his body.  Sherlock presses forward again, licks at Lestrade’s mouth, wraps his hands around the back of Lestrade’s head. Their kiss is more a battle of wills than an amorous embrace, and Lestrade loses himself for a moment in the tease and slide of their mouths.

The sudden clarity he gets from Sherlock’s teeth on his lip makes him swear, stumble backward a few steps. They breathe at each other a moment, the only sound the wind as it buffets through the alley, and Lestrade feels the fog recede. There are undeniable obstacles that make his a truly terrible idea, and one of them is staring him right in the face.

“Don’t come back until you’re clean,” he rasps, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t say a word but turns quickly and strides from the alley, hailing a cab and ducking inside. Lestrade shakes his head, turns back to the scene, tries to get something done before he goes home to have a quiet breakdown in the silence of his own kitchen.

This is the kind of shit that makes him drink at night. Not the job, no; he’d gotten over that years ago. He knows his real problem lies in six feet plus of a lanky, dark-haired genius, a man determined to make his life a pleasure and a torment all at once. Sherlock coming to a crime scene high as a kite is enough to get Lestrade demoted, and shagging him in that state is enough to get him sacked.  And the hell of it is, beautiful thing like that, it’d almost be worth it.

Almost.

Because he has the distinct feeling that Sherlock Holmes is the kind of man you’d get so wrapped up in you wouldn’t know where you ended and he began. 

 …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sherlock doesn’t come back. In fact, Lestrade doesn’t hear from him at all, and after a month he’s a bit worried. Sherlock hasn’t texted, hasn’t called, hasn’t sent taunting little emails full of insults and information. Lestrade never thought he’d miss being called a clueless, useless dolt on a regular basis, but he does.

It only takes the tiniest of pretenses, a request to indentify a poison, to bring him to Sherlock’s Montague Street bedsit.  He’s only been there once, a mission to recover a file, and his shoes never recovered. Lestrade guesses it’s only a matter of time before his landlord boots him based solely on the state of the place.

He pounds on Sherlock’s door, waits. There are sounds of someone moving around in there, and finally he hears a sharp “If it’s you, Lestrade, come in. Everyone else fuck off!” bellowed through the wood. He really needs to keep his door locked, Lestrade thinks, as he turns the doorknob and walks fully inside only to stop short at the sight of Sherlock, sleeve rolled up and a syringe lying prepared on the table.

“You’ll have to wait, Inspector, I’m a bit indisposed.” Sherlock pulls the length of elastic band tighter around his upper arm, making the abused vein stand out even more clearly. He’s about to plunge the needle into delicate skin when he stops and looks up, a sly challenge apparent in his expression.  

Lestrade steels himself, prepares to play the game.  “Don’t mind me,” he says nonchalantly, sitting down at the other end of the tatty brown sofa. “Who am I to tell you what to do?”

Sherlock locks eyes with Lestrade, never looks away as he finds the vein by touch and presses down the piston.  His eyes close in an instant and Lestrade waits, watches the rush of pleasure as it shivers up from belly to brain. Before Sherlock finds his way back to total awareness, Lestrade leans over and snaps his handcuffs around Sherlock’s wrists.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open, the pupils huge and dark as the drug takes effect. He tries to bolt for the door but Lestrade wrestles him back down, straddles his lap and grips his chin, forcing Sherlock to look him in the face.

“Now you listen to me. You’re going in for a night. If you agree to rehab we’ll let you out in the morning with a fine. Fight me and I’ll have you sent up for a lot more than a simple possession charge.”

Sherlock squirms, keeps trying to fight, but Lestrade’s weight on his lap and the cocaine coursing through his system prevents him. “Get _off_ of me,” he growls, and his voice is shaky, stuttering. “You’ll never get me to the station. It won’t happen. I’ll bet you anything you care to wager I’ll never see the inside of a holding cell. And if you think you have the power to keep—“ Lestrade cuts him off by pushing his palm against Sherlock’s mouth.

“You just keep quiet a minute. We have some things to discuss, you and I, and your little games aren’t going to be part of it. You’re going to sober up whether you like it or not.”

Sherlock stares, eyes wide open, and when Lestrade pulls his hand away he starts to laugh, high and stretched and awful. “You’re ridiculous, you know that. There’s, there’s a hundred things I know about you, about every case you’re working on right now. You can’t stand to be without that information, you know you can’t. You won’t. You’re too _noble_ to let something go unsolved when I can help you.”

Lestrade lets him rave, lets him work through all the anger and frustration as long as the cocaine has loosed his tongue. It’s difficult to hear so much of what Lestrade can feel in his gut spelled out in Sherlock’s unrelenting tirade, but it tears at him, watching the mind of a generation rage and fight against itself. He feels responsible, somehow; he’s encouraged Sherlock’s interest but never allowed it to blossom into its full potential. And he does have potential; Lestrade would have to be blind not to see it.

So he accepts his odd justice and waits patiently, still perched on Sherlock’s lap until Sherlock’s fury slows, ebbs like the tide.  

“You’re amazing, and brilliant, and there’s so much you could do for us.  I want to let you. God, Sherlock, I do, on my life I do.” Lestrade reaches forward, cups Sherlock’s cheek in his hand, leans forward and brushes his lips across Sherlock’s smooth forehead. When he pulls back, Sherlock is still quivering, but has quieted. “You know I can’t take the risk with you like this.” He runs his thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I know you won’t let me help any other way.” He kisses Sherlock’s mouth and stands up, pulls on his overcoat.

Sherlock’s anger flares again at Lestrade’s refusal to back down. He curses vehemently, green-grey eyes snapping with anger and Lestrade grandly ignores it all, hooks a hand under each armpit and hauls him off the sofa. He starts to march him downstairs when he’s met by a nattily dressed man just reaching the top of the stairs.

“Oh dear,” he says, and Lestrade rolls his eyes. Sherlock looks irritated for a moment, but then his expression turns unbearably smug.

Lestrade tightens his hold on Sherlock’s arm. “Police business. You’ll have to come back later.”

The man holds up a hand. “No, I don’t believe so. I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother. I’ve come to retrieve him.”

“Not likely. He’s under arrest.”

“Oh, but you see, he’s not. Or, he won’t be.” He hands Lestrade a card. “I’d like to think we could deal with this without unpleasantness, don’t you agree? And I’m taking Sherlock straight to an in-patient centre, if that eases your mind.”

Sherlock whips around to stare at his brother. “What?” he snaps, and Lestrade knows at that moment that letting Sherlock go with Mycroft is likely the best option.

“He’s all yours, then,” Lestrade says. “I’ll just take these.” He unlocks the handcuffs, puts them in his pocket. Sherlock looks as if he can’t decide whether or not to do a runner when Lestrade puts a hand on his shoulder. The drug’s effect has started to wane, and Sherlock looks at Lestrade’s hand, then at his brother. His eyes, red-rimmed and dulled, are exhausted.

“I’ll be in the car. I expect you in five minutes,” Mycroft says, and goes back downstairs. Sherlock’s gaze follows him all the way down, then turns to Lestrade.

“He’s content to let things slide until you stepped in. It forced his hand.”

“How long would he have waited?”

“Oh, another month, give or take. Even so, I haven’t decided whether I’ll forgive you for this,” Sherlock says and pushes a hand through his hair.

Lestrade smiles. “Just come find me when you’re ready.” He grips Sherlock’s shoulder a bit harder. Lestrade wants to kiss him again before he goes off for God knows how long and who knows where. “It’s going to be dull without you.”

Sherlock quirks a smile and bolts down the stairs.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

It only takes five days before the first text arrives. _They don’t even have honey here. Who doesn’t have honey?_

_Where are you?_ Lestrade types back.

_Sussex. It’s rather lovely._

_All right?_

_No. Bored. Nauseated. Mycroft is a git._

_Just give it some time. I’ll have something when you get back. Saving it special._

_If it’s the Bayswater mystery, I demand the files now._

Lestrade chuckles, knowing the sixty year old cold case is one Sherlock’s been dying to work on, but Lestrade hadn’t been given authorization to open until now. He even has an exhumation order pending, but he’s going to keep that one secret until Sherlock comes back, hopefully clean and whole.

He really wasn’t kidding when he told Sherlock it was going to be dull without him. His nights stretch on into the morning sometimes, bleak and colorless, full of stress and worry and theories and hardly anyone to share it with. Sally gives him worried looks when she knocks off at eight or nine, passing his door and raising an eyebrow and telling him to go home and get some sleep.

He tries, usually curling up on his sofa with the telly on, the soft sound lulling him into a restless, fitful half-sleep that leaves him more tired than he’d been the night before.

He hates to admit how much he misses Sherlock. Even knowing what he knows about Sherlock’s deepest weakness, he still thinks he’s one of the most amazing, brilliant, gifted men he’s ever met, and if he could just turn that brilliance, channel it somehow, it would be the work of a generation. 

He carefully tries to skate across deeper, more hidden things. The scent of Sherlock’s skin, the single taste of his lips that seems so long ago now the memory has narrowed to the simplest impression of soft, warm, wet. It makes him hard despite himself, aching, and when he comes, desperate and alone, its Sherlock’s wry mocking smile he sees behind his closed eyelids.

Sherlock still texts occasionally, usually full of complaints about the food, or the activity restrictions, or the fact that he’d been caught sneaking out through the kitchen window in the middle of the night.  That last Lestrade reads as he pours a whiskey, leaving him chuckling as he settles against the sofa cushions. Sherlock’s probably giving those poor doctors and nurses more trouble than he’s worth, midnight escapes notwithstanding. He wonders if Sherlock is through the worst of it now, if the withdrawal has passed through to cravings and then to back-of-the mind longing.  He’s not said anything about his treatment in his texts, but Lestrade knows. He’s seen it too many times, with too many witnesses, too many suspects, too many friends. He finally falls asleep wondering if Sherlock might have finally won where so many others had not, this time around.

He wakes up when he feels fingertips slide down his cheek. It takes a moment to realize that he’s at home, and his eyes snap open to see Sherlock crouching by the sofa, looking at him with a wry smile.

“How on earth did you get here?” he asks, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Did you sneak out again?”

“Of course I did. Their response last time was so illuminating it made it quite easy to evade them this time.”

He looks Sherlock over critically. He’s a little thinner, but not much, and the deep bruise-like shadows that had developed under his eyes have disappeared. “Are you going back?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here, then?” It’s not that it isn’t good to see him, but given what happened the last few times they were alone, he’s wondering what the catch is, and his fingers twitch in anticipation.

Sherlock shrugs, sits on the sofa, tucks his legs up under him and pulls out a cigarette. Lestrade watches, rapt, as he snaps the lighter.

“Who the hell said you could smoke in here?”

The smoke streams out of Sherlock’s mouth in a thin blue line and his eyes narrow. “I break into your house at three in the morning, and this is what you object to?”

Lestrade leans forward, snatches the cigarette from Sherlock’s lips and drops it into his used whiskey glass.

“Yeah, about that,” he starts, then pulls Sherlock to him, kisses him ferociously, deeply. Now that Sherlock is back to himself, Lestrade’s lost all will to maintain even a slight distance. Everything that Sherlock has been, can potentially be, to his work and to his life is cascading through his mind, letting him imagine possibilities by the thousands. Lestrade locks his hand in dark curls, pulls Sherlock’s head back and buries his face in that elegant neck, breathes in the smell of nicotine and cologne, nibbles and sucks smooth, taut skin until Sherlock moans aloud. “So beautiful,” he murmurs. “Wanted this for ages.”

“Your own fault it took so long,” Sherlock gasps, shoves his hands up the back of Lestrade’s shirt. “You could have had this months ago.”

“Wouldn’t have been all you though, would it,” Lestrade says, then immediately regrets it when Sherlock’s shoulders go taut and he pulls back.

“I am who I’ve always been,” he snaps. “It was you that couldn’t deal with who that was.”

Lestrade bristles. “That’s not it at all. You know I’d have been sacked. And besides,” he continues, peppering kisses along Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, “I only want you with your full, clear-headed, and enthusiastic consent.”

Sherlock’s frown eases, his lips part on a breath as Lestrade slides his hand up his thigh. A little forgiveness, then, and Lestrade’s glad for it. He continues to caress, to kiss, and when Sherlock shoves him back into the cushions and climbs into his lap, he knows that Sherlock has at least pushed the discussion off to ambush him with later.

Lestrade fiddles with the long line of buttons up Sherlock’s front, pushes the shirt from his shoulders before he sliding his nose up Sherlock’s breastbone, simply laying his cheek against Sherlock’s bare chest and wrapping his arms around his body. There is a long while to wait until he knows for sure that Sherlock will stay clean, but for now he is, and it seems a gift to hold him this way.

Sherlock cards his fingers through Lestrade’s hair and down over his shoulders before pulling away slightly to work on Lestrade’s buttons. Their position gets his shirt tangled in his trousers, and they giggle ruefully as he pulls it off and tosses it to the floor. 

“Trousers,” Sherlock suggests, and Lestrade goes cold then hot as he quickly undoes his flies and kicks his trousers and pants down and off. Sherlock does the same, then shifts uncomfortably as Lestrade stares. Christ, he’s perfection, sculpted in clean, long lines that catch the light in hollows and planes. His cock is fully erect, long and curved and he rubs his palm over it almost self consciously.

Lestrade holds out his hand, invites Sherlock back onto his lap, encourages him to straddle his legs and press right up against him. Sherlock settles in with a gasp and sigh and grinds down a little as Lestrade grasps the curve of his arse, pulls them together more tightly. The shift and slide of their bodies is electric, the heat of friction warming them in the cool air of the flat, and the part of Lestrade’s mind not cloudy with lust knows that a simple handjob never is just simple, never could be, especially not where Sherlock is concerned.

Sherlock leans back, peers down at Lestrade in the dim light of the television. “Stop that,” he says, and kisses him again, licks into Lestrade’s mouth with abandon, distracts his mind away from the future and back into the here and now, which is Sherlock’s long, wet fingers twining with his, wrapping around both of their cocks.

“Christ,” is all Lestrade can say, and pushes up into the tight circle of their hands, the feel of Sherlock’s cock sliding along his own shivering down his spine. Sherlock arches his spine, rocks harder into their combined hands. He moans, sighs, encourages with a soft whispered “yes” and “there” until Lestrade is almost mindless in the enveloping mist of his impending orgasm. Sherlock gets there first, coming with this head thrown back and Lestrade’s name on his lips. Even heart-still at the sight, Lestrade keeps their rhythm enough that he follows right after, his other hand an anchor on Sherlock’s hip, holding onto his body as if it were his only grip on reality.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“You said you had a surprise for me,” Sherlock says in the early grey dawn, and nuzzles Lestrade’s shoulder. “But I don’t see anything here.”

They’d cleaned up a bit, snogged a little more, wound their way back to Lestrade’s bed and collapsed in exhaustion. Lestrade had been able to sleep, a little, but the presence of someone else in his bed is so rare that Sherlock’s breath on his back is enough to wake him.

“I do have one, you insatiable creature.”

“The Bayswater case. You had it reopened, didn’t you? Is the evidence out of archive yet? Can we go down now?” Sherlock kicks the covers off, gets ready to climb over Lestrade’s body and take off starkers, knowing him, but Lestrade grabs him by both hips and hauls him back.

“Don’t I get a good morning kiss, brat?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Are you going to be like this all the time?”

“If you want that exhumation order, sure.”

Sherlock’s eyes go comically huge, his mouth wide open in shock. Lestrade laughs, having gotten one over on him for once.  He tackles Lestrade to the bed, kisses him over and over until Lestrade’s giggling, weak and helpless with mirth, and Sherlock can finally jump out of bed and start getting dressed.  Lestrade lies back and watches him, his enthusiasm so infectious it’s making Lestrade want to get out of bed and take him down to the Met right now. However, there is one thing he has to say first, a demand for assurance and trust and a life well-lived. He reaches out, snags Sherlock’s hand, and pulls gently. Sherlock stops looking for his socks and glances at Lestrade questioningly.

And he can’t. Sherlock knows. He knows how Lestrade feels, not just about him but about everything, and he can no longer make himself crush the light out of those eyes with even a hint of mistrust or second thoughts. He takes a deep breath, kisses Sherlock’s hand.

“Do us proud,” is all he says.

 

_Title from: Peter Bjorn and John, Up Agasint the Wall_

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
